All the Flowers Have Died

 

ALL THE FLOWERS HAVE DIED
H. W. Bryce
Today, Saturday, July 8th, 2023, marks the 500th day
Of the Unkrainian invasion by Russia.
Dedicted to all Ukrainians:
— —
The wasteland lay smouldering,
Smoke wisps floating up like balloons
From the rubble where there are no tunes.
And all the flowers have died.
From the day when tornadoes hailed down
Destroying this peaceful, flowering land,
Its rhythm is an an unsynchopated band,
And all the flowers have died.
The trees have been smothered by ashes,
From fires with unrelating power,
The air reeks like acrid gunpowder,
And all the flowers have died.
Men women and children are dead now,
Grandmothers, and sisters and babies,
Stricken by missiles on wind, ravaged like rabies,
And all the flowers have died.
The monsters came, the monsters destroyed,
Replicating the war of the worlds,
Hurricanes chewed up all of the words
And The Word was shot out of the air.
Daffodils wilted, roses died on the vine,
The flower of her father is trampled down,
The grass of the land has all turned brown,
And all the flowers have died.
The dancing girls are dancing no more,
The Maypole has been blown down,
They no longer play queen with a crown,
For all of the flowers have died.
And all the flowers have died.
Forever to the end we shall defend,
Forever will shine the sun, the sun will shine
Again in the flower, our beloved flower,
And the sunflower will rise again,
AND THE SUNFLOWERS WILL RISE AGAIN.
— —
Image via Pixabay
May be a black-and-white image of 1 person and child
Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Caring, Fatigue, Fear, Flowers, Grief, Heroism, Loss, Peace | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

The Five-minute Shower

 

The five-minute shower
H. W. Bryce
They wanted us to save on our water consumption.
They gave us water-saver dishwashers.
The gave us little red booklets on how to conserve water.
The gave us little mini hourglass timers for the
Five-minute shower.
Five-minute shower!
The neighbour runs half hour showers, but we,
We have to get in, turn on, soap up, douse down,
Shut off, get out, get dressed.
God help us if we should sing in the shower.
It’s a five-minute shower.
No time for enjoyment, to stand there
And revel in the warmth, the soothing
Wash-over of warm water trickling down your body,
Enjoying the benefit of a built-in massage,.
Of having fun lathering up, doing a stand-up
Bubble bath, spending a moment in the glory of it,
In the memory of bath time with the littlees,
Washing of the grime and the slime of the day,
The dirty epithets hurled during the hours of work—
The anticipation of the upcoming evening
Dancing with the love of your life—
Cleansing body and soul
To face the world refreshed—
AHHHHHHHHHH!
TIME’S UP! Get outta the shower.
Five minutes. Time’s Up. GET OUT!
Ah! The five-minute shower.
A quicky to face the day.
May be an image of 1 person and body of water
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Everything in its own Time

 

Everything in its Own Time

H. W. Bryce
The seasons come and the seasons go,
Hiccups may well interrupt, but they can
Never win. They are but novas burning out,
For every season has its time, and so have we,
All will be well again. The gods and Gaia make it so.
As long as time revolves around the sun,
As long as orbits stay in their place,
As long as the sun keeps burning,
Everything in its own time will
Prevail; eventually, so will we.
All will be as it ought to be.
Winter, spring, summer, fall,
Each will come to have its time.
And we may live in darkness now,
But the wheel will keep on turning,
And it will carry us through this time,
And we will have our sunshine time again.
The challenge is a test of courage, strength of mind,
That winning spirit embedded within us, we, the Human kind.
— —
May be a black-and-white image of wrist watch
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A Book for You

 

pic for Soliloquy

A BOOK FOR YOU
And suppose when you got up
You found that reverie turned perfectly true!
Suppose! What next?
And with that, opens a world of optimism in Anjali Sahoo’s new book of poetry Soliliquy of Eternity.
Reason enough to crack open this delightful read. From reverie to poetic solutions to life’s conundrums.
After all, from dreams come plans and from plans come solutions.
And from solutions comes Peace.
And isn’t that reason enough to read Anjali Sahoo’s dream for us? A breath of fresh air in a world of hurt; a reason to exercise your optimism.
From the butterfly as “…a vivid memo of the Great God…” to the final flight of the butterfly flying out of the book, with your spirit of awe and adventure…
This is why writers write, and why readers read.
—I was privileged to write a foreword to Anjali sahoo’s new book Soliloquy to Eternity.
These are snippets from that foreword.
…the poet encapsulates more than the words appear to say on the surface. This is one enchanting facet of this poet’s work. What seems simple holds deeper meaning from deeper experience. This is another reason that we read poetry. Reading should, and must, be more than surfing. The reader must open his or her heart and mind to subtleties.
I was impelled to keep reading, right to the end, where the symbolic butterfly flies off, leaving the reader somehow enchanted, and a bit better than before.
You will find enchantment and depth in Sahoo’s poetry.
— —
See you next week.
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A Moving Experience

 

Pic for A Moving Experience.

A MOVING EXPERIENCE
H. W. Bryce
As it appears in STORYWITS Magazine in Greece,
thanks to @Eva Lianou Petropoulou and team.
A funny thing happened
On the way to my new abode
Sorting papers
Nostalgia
Being tough—forcing myself
Me saying goodbye
Sorting, gathering
Box after box of photos
And I see her here
And suddenly I’m crying
How many goodbyes must one say?
After that final goodbye
And that after all those long, lone goodbyes
That series of goodbyes to the
Various personalities moulded by Alzheimer’s
And try as I will,
The more I get it together,
The more I fall apart.
So it’s goodbye, my love,,,
But never, really,
Thouigh I now go forward
With courage and expectancy
To new adventures…
Thank you, my love,
You moulded me well.
I shall do you proud.
Aw hell!
The more I get it togeter,
The more I fall apart!
Here’s a link to the magazine.
This should open up the magazine.
Enjoy. Say thanks Eva.
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Sea of Ink

 

Sea of Ink pic

SEA OF INK

H. W. Bryce

They ask me, why do I write?

I tell them this:

I write because I have been thrown

Into the Sea of Ink,

And life becomes a case of write

Or sink.

The choice is mine and I choose life,

And so I swim in rhythmic strokes,

Four iambic feet upon the sea,

And breathe, four iambic feet

Upon the sea, and…

Strike eight beat to the bar.

I rest a beat and swim to beat

The flowing tide of ink,

I challenge the stream,

I float upon the flow

Of the treble clef of life

To keep myself sane.

 

I count the measures of a bar

And swim to carry on the tune.

And when I tire of that metronome,

I thrash about like a drumming riff,

And to reach the shore, I drift

A bit to breast stroke a bridge

And aim for a ridge, a place to plant

My feet upon a triumphal beach.

And fatigue becomes a fuge.

 

And when the strain gets too much

It becomes a refrain, just to keep in touch

And I float along with the sea of ink;

There is so much inspiration here to drink.

 

I float upon my back to change the pace

And I absorb the ink of life from out the sea

And let it flow throughout my veins,

And I write because I live,

And once I write, I feel compelled to give.

And that, my friend is why I write.

Posted in A Voice in the Wilderness, Author, Choices, Poem, Poetry, The Call | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

Hollow Tree

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Shared with Public     blogged May 1, 2023

ALL IS QUIET
H. W. Bryce
Apr 13, 2023
All is quiet on the tortured front.
The façade is a picture of peace.
But insde, tranquility does a dance
Upon burning hot coals and a thirst,
The heart of the edifice wants to burst,
The dance floor craves music and a chance
To make music, to welcome all dancers in,
To revel in the company of you,
For life is always better with two.
The old dance hall looks out, but sighs within.
Yes, the façade is the smile without, but within
The welcome chairs sit empty, the view
Is stark walls, chairs are empty pews,
The psalms are stored in empty bins.
The only dance is taking a chance
To shake off all of depression’s dust,
Remember old dancing steps to bust
Out of old habits without a backward glance.
The façade is a picture of peace.
All is quiet, on the tortured front.
Image by MasterTux from Pixabay
No photo description available.
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Herb W Bryce

Hello Robert Martens. Thanks much, my friend. You are always welcome here. Be well, Robert.
🦋🦋🦋

 

 

 THE HOLLOW TREE

with SheLa Nefertiti Morrison
And H. W. Bryce
Stanley Park was so pristine and green, then,
The totem poles were speaking out,
And brother took me to the hollow tree,
And inside there we stood. Famous around the world,
People came and shot it with their click-click-clicks
To story it in photographic albums, and so did we.
We stood there in reverence, in awe to the
Mighty Maker, whose hand gave us forests,
Streams and seas. If only He had unscaled
Our eyes to see. For buffeting storms and
Ages old, wore on that old hollow tree, until,
Crippled, it was dressed in crutches, struts
And, yes, in a lot of good will. Until another
Storm took it down. Was the Mighty Maker
Begging us to see? Are we being eroded, too?
Reduced to pathetic, people took the remaining
Stump, garnished it in gold, precious bright
Yellow gold, and erected it outside the
Bank of Hong Kong—“Lucky Money” symbol
To the offshore tenants of an empty cluster
Of pricy condominiums now inhabitated by
Shadowy figures with good hearts—but now
Unseen by world tourists and countrymen
Alike. An empty gesture? A folklore not
Shared by all? Revered by the few, lost
To the many? Still hollow on the inside.
Are we being eroded?
One thing is for certain, though, to these
Eyes, it is garish; but to those who saved the
Hollow Tree, it is an entire philosophy.
Beauty remains in the eyes of the beholders.
And we, we honour that.
Image from Pinterest
May be an image of tree
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